Gingerfication
by mimblewimbleme
Summary: Torn away from the isolation of his manor and luxury of his firewhiskey, Draco Malfoy awakens at the Burrow. Sober bored, and irritated at Blaise's behavior around the ginger brood, Draco decides there's only one thing to do; obstruct every attempt his friend makes to woo Hermione Granger.
1. Chapter 1

**Gingerfication**

Draco awoke to an opus of abrasive sounds. Thumping, clomping, and strident voices assaulted his ears.

His head ached. His back throbbed. His skin itched.

What had he done to himself?

Left alone to his own devices, Draco Malfoy had drunk himself into many a horrid locale these past months, but none had assailed his senses to such an alarming degree.

He struggled to open his eyes and take in his surroundings, which he assumed, would include the harsh sun. But he was both relieved and puzzled by the soft golden light which danced across high wooden beams.

He was indoors. Well, that was an improvement.

Usually when he awoke in such a state, he found himself sprawled out on the grounds of the Manor, the sun high in the sky, beating down on him and causing his vision to spot. So, he was inside. But where?

Sitting up, he was overcome with nausea. Bile and firewhiskey burned as it rose high in his throat, and he struggled to swallow it back down. With a grimace, he regarded his surroundings, attempting to piece together the events that brought him here.

He inventoried the small room.

It was oddly shaped, as if built of cards and seemed just as sturdy. Tattered wallpaper peeked out from behind the edges of posters. Chudley Cannons.

Draco almost vomited again.

There was a small desk, tattered chair, and a trunk at the end of the bed upon which he had awoken, and was currently covered in the most disagreeable bedspread ever produced; abrasive and a quite violent shade of orange.

The entire room felt hot and suffocating, and Draco chucked the offending cover off and moved to stand. As he did, his eyes caught sight of a small frame set on the desk. Grinning broadly was an all too familiar trio.

Bollocks!

The events of the previous day came flooding back.

He was drunk. He was beyond drunk; Sitting in his father's chair in front of the fireplace.

Someone was talking. No. Someone was yelling. Who was in his house?

"MERLIN'S SAGGY BALLS, DRACO! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?"

Draco drug his eyes away from the glass in his hand with much effort, and took in the dark looming form of the Wizard in front of him.

Or were there two of them?

"You can't keep on like this! You're drinking yourself into the grave!"

He knew that voice.

"Blaise!" He exclaimed, a broad grin spread across his face. "When did you get here?" He struggled to focus on the figure of his best and only remaining friend.

"Come. Sit. Drink with me." He lifted the glass to his lips only to find it woefully empty. "BOBBINS! Firewhiskey!"

"Bobbins isn't here, mate." Blaise's voice was softer now. Mournful almost.

"Where the bloody hell did that creature go? BOBBINS!"

His glass was torn away, and his head shot up to find Blaise hovering over him.

"The Ministry seized your elves weeks ago."

Draco moved to stand in indignation, but his feet seemed disinclined to cooperate, sending him toppling back to the safety of his seat.

"You weren't kidding." A clipped voice cut through the air and Draco watched as Blaise's gaze was drawn away.

"He's been like this for months." Who was Blaise talking to?

"He really doesn't remember the inquiry?" What inquiry?

"He doesn't remember Christmas."

"HE is sitting right here!" How dare they speak of him as if he was not present.

"YOU are not Draco Malfoy. You are not…. THIS!"

Draco reached for his glass, but his dark-haired friend was too quick. Blaise stepped out of view and around the chair, addressing the mystery Witch in the room.

"We have to get him out of here."

"WE? Why WE?"

"He's got no one else. You know that."

"Why can't you take him?"

"And leave him in who's care while I'm away? My mother? She's likely to wed the sodding bloke and drain his vault by mid-day."

Draco cringed. He didn't want to get married. Who was getting married?

"Well you're right. He can't stay here."

"I'm fine. Just thirsty. BOBBINS!"

"Won't you take him? Just until I can make other arrangements. With the elves gone, he's not even eating."

"He won't be in much better care at Grimmauld Place."

Grimmauld Place? Who was trying to take him to that dump? Who was Blaise speaking to?

"But I think I know a place. If they will have him, of course. Though I don't think Ron will be pleased."

"Ron who?" Draco asked.

"Better there than here."

"Ron WHOOO?" Draco tried again

"Are you sure?" There was a pregnant pause.

"Hellooooo?" He craned his neck, struggling to locate Blaise and the mystery Witch behind him.

"I'll do what I can, Zabini. No promises."

"Thank you."

"I'm not doing this for you, you know? I'm certainly not doing it for HIM either."

"I know."

He heard the whoosh of the floo just as a glass was returned to his hand, a finger of firewhiskey sloshing inside. Draco grinned up at his friend, tossing the amber liquid back as darkness overtook him.

* * *

He was drowning.

This was it. Time for the world to at last be rid of the Malfoys.

He didn't fight it; made no endeavor to struggle for air. This was fitting. He survived his Father, the Dark Lord, that blasted snake, and a war. He outlived them all and would instead, leave this world by drowning in whatever puddle or dirty body of water he staggered into.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard voices, muffled by the never-ending stream of water assaulting him. His mind wandered, images of his youth flashing before him. He was ready.

Then it stopped.

He gasped, eyes shooting open wide as his lungs fought for air against his mind's desire. Before him stood a plump woman with flaming red hair, one hand on her wide hip, the other holding her wand, still pointed at his face.

"Up!"

What was happening?

She lowered her wand and rushed toward him, muttering as she fussed about, drying his clothes and ushering him out of his seat.

His seat?

He looked about, around the chaotic whirl of second-hand robes and red hair still moving about. He was in his study. In his chair.

His face flushed with anger. Anger at being so near death only to be denied it. Anger at this Weasley Witch in front of him. Anger at the world which did so well to forget him.

"I said up! You're not so lucky as to cross into the veil yet. Not today. Not on my watch. UP!"

When he did not comply for the second time, he felt two sets of hands on either side gripping his arms and tossing him roughly onto his feet.

He swayed only slightly, his anger taking root and willing his legs to do his bidding this time. He heard laughter from across the room and immediately sought out the Wizard who dared laugh at Draco Malfoy.

His eyes on a pair standing in the doorway and Draco's stomach dropped. He paled as ice replaced the blood in his veins, his entire body frozen.

No. It couldn't be. She was dead.

She was the same, yet different; Her hair, usually knotted and wild had been tamed. Her robes clean and pressed as she stood there, lurking in the shadows beside his only friend.

He stepped back, the backs of his knees hitting the chair as he fumbled for his wand on the table. Feeling more secure with wand in hand, he regained his composure, stepping forward and passed a puzzled Molly Weasley. He raised his wand, embarrassed at the tremble of his hand as he spoke.

"Get away from her, Blaise."

His friend's laughter caught in his throat as he stared back, confusion and alarm marring his handsome features. He stepped forward, out of the archway and fully into the room, hands raised, as if approaching an aggressive creature.

"Lower your wand, mate."

"NO!" his voice broke. "Get away from him you bitch! You will not hurt him! Not him! He's all that's left!"

The room was silent, but around him he could sense movement, Witches and Wizards circling, closing in on him. He spun around, wand still raised, tears pricking his eyes as he regarded each redhead in outrage.

"What is wrong with you? Have you all gone mad? She shouldn't be here! She can't be here! She's dead!"

Draco spun to face Molly; the only Weasley without their wand trained on him. The compassion in her face broke him.

"You killed her!" he shouted.

"You killed her." It was barely more than a whisper.

Before he knew what was happening, the Weasley matriarch had enveloped him in a fierce embrace. He sunk into her short form, fingers abandoning his wand so as to grip her more firmly to him.

How long had it been since he felt the touch of another being? Weeks? Months? Years?

She whispered kind things into his ear, stroking his head, soothing him as one of her own. Draco had never known such kindness; such comfort.

She pulled away, her hands moving to hold his arms, as if reassuring she would not leave him. She turned, escorting him alongside her toward the shadows.

Draco looked up, too broken and frightened to fend off the ghost of his aunt. There had been countless times he had been sure she would kill him. Dear Aunt Bella. But when he looked up, expecting to see the maniacal and crazed expression that still haunted his dreams, he found no such terror.

She stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the dim light emanating from the fireplace. Her movements were smooth, practiced, poised. These were not the etiquettes of a mad woman, but of a socialite. A Witch of good standing.

Her face was soft and humane; Her brown eyes warm and damp with tears. She looked so much like Bella, but at the same time, quite different. Her plated hair was a lighter shade of brown and her skin was not so pale, but somewhat bronzed by the sun.

"Draco, dear." Molly spoke at his side, startling and causing him to regain a sense of who and where he was. "This is Andromeda Tonks." Recognition flashed. "Your Aunt, Andromeda."

Andromeda? Tonks? He eyed the tall Witch, who currently looked as if she were going to hug him as well.

Hug. Hug him?

She was a blood traitor. As was the Witch at his side. In fact, his house was lousy with blood traitors this evening. He sneered and ripped his arm away from Molly's embrace. He didn't wait to see the wounded looks on the Witch's' face.

He turned on his heel, retrieving his wand from the floor and strode to his only true ally in the room.

"Blaise." He hissed into his ear. "What are these traitors doing in my home?" His tone was harsh and severe. He made no attempt to lower his voice or shield his words from its other occupants.

"I brought them here, mate. You're not well."

Draco stepped back and directed a scornful look at his friend. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"What are you – "

"You are! You've gone soft. I knew you were no Slytherin, but a Gryffindor? HA!" he barked humorlessly, watching as his friend's face fell.

"Get OUT." He hissed, raising his wand and motioning toward the floo. Blaise didn't move.

"OUT! All of you! You are not welcome here."

"Draco, dear," Molly stepped forward, but froze when his wand met her gaze. Her kind expression and demeanor shifted to a darker and more treacherous one, but Draco Malfoy feared no Weasley.

"I'm warning you."

The gingers closed ranks; Arthur, the Weaslette, the one with the scars, and the twin. They all came to Molly's side, wands drawn with matching looks of fury.

"You're coming with us, boy."

Draco eyed Arthur Weasley. "And why on earth would I do that?"

"We're trying to help you, Malfoy." Ah, the Weaslette. She speaks. "Godric knows why though." She shot an expression past him to the dark-haired wizard at his back.

"I don't need help from the likes of YOU."

"For Merlin's sake. I told you this would not work." Another voice sounded from across the room in a familiar, bossy tone.

Shoes clicked across the stone floor as the bushy haired Witch came into view, arms crossed but wand still firmly in hand.

"Five Weasleys, two traitors, and a Mudblood. It will take weeks to rid your stench from the room."

"We aren't the ones who smell, mate." Draco glared over his shoulder. How dare he? Malfoys do not…smell.

"Go on, boy," Arthur tried again. "Fetch your things and come along. We've no more a desire to remain here than you."

"In what way must I say it? How can I get this to sink into your ginger skull? I. Am. Not. Go -"

"Petrificus Totalus!" White light shot across the room, hitting Draco square in the chest. His arms and legs snapped together as his entire body went stiff. He began to wobble and mentally prepared himself for the fall. It did nothing to soften his landing.

Unable to move or speak, he glowered up at the high ceiling, mentally vowing revenge against whoever cast the spell.

A shadow travelled across his form, a large mass blocking out the glow of the fire. He focused on the silhouette, finally able to make out tanned skin and honey brown eyes amidst a mass of curls. A smirk befitting a Malfoy spread across her face as she looked down at him.

"Why didn't we just do that at the start?" That sounded like the twin.

"Because we wanted it to be HIS decision." Mrs. Weasley.

"That was never going to happen," Hermione replied.

Hermione. Granger. Granger. If he could have made a sound he would have growled.

As she walked away, he felt his body lift and float through the air. They were taking him. Taking him away from his home. From his things. From his firewhiskey.

In that moment, Draco Malfoy swore unyielding retribution against Hermione Granger.

* * *

The door swung open and a red-faced Ron Weasley stormed into the room, wand firmly at his side.

"Weasley." Draco spoke through clenched teeth.

"Malfoy." His demeanor could best be described as barely constrained outrage. "Everyone is waiting for you downstairs."

"I should have known this was your hovel." Draco stood, focusing his best Malfoy sneer in the direction of the Gryffindor.

"I've promised not to harm you. Don't make me break that promise."

"You couldn't cast a decent hex if your life depended on it, Weasel."

"Care to test that theory? Give me a reason, Malfoy."

"Ron!" Molly Weasley's voice echoed up the from the floors below and both Wizards stiffened.

"We're coming!" Ron shouted back, grinning as he watched Draco wince at the volume.

He turned his back to the blonde, mumbling something that sounded like 'bloody ridiculous' as he exited the room. Draco waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade away before moving to follow.

He was remiss to follow the beckoning of any Weasley, but he supposed the sooner he obliged, the sooner he could leave this pitiful excuse for a house and rid himself of the Weasley stench.

He would have to burn these clothes.

Draco navigated the steep twisting stairway, following the very sounds which had awoken him. Several floor down, if you could call them such, he was greeted by a rather alarming sight.

The Weasley brood filled the room, apparently the kitchen. Some sat at a large wooden table in its center shoveling food into their ginger faces, others were standing, talking animatedly; Probably about him. The furniture was old and worn, the chairs mismatched. In the small sink, dishes floated in the air, cleaning and drying themselves as Mrs. Weasley fussed about.

No one had yet noticed his presence.

He continued to look about the room. On one side was a large fireplace, a thick layer of soot lining its venire. Books were stacked high on its mantle and a curious clock hung above. On the far side was an open door, and from the sound of it there were more Weasleys outside as well.

How many of there were there now? Where did they find the time to…breed…to such a degree?

Amidst the chaotic noises, a melodious laughter penetrated the room. Draco was not the only one drawn to the sound. He was, however, the only one both surprised and mildly sickened by its source.

Hermione Granger, followed closely by his former friend Blaise entered the Burrow. In the narrow hallway, she turned to him, her eyes alight with laughter, his darkened by what Draco recognized as desire.

Of course. It all made sense now.

Why Blaise suddenly decided he had the right to intervein in his life. Why he was suddenly so concerned with his well-being. Why the Wizard had brought Weasleys into his family's home.

He was trying to get into Granger's knickers. Perhaps he was still a Slytherin after all.

The confined space brought their bodies intimately close. She struggled to catch her breath as a blush rose high on her cheeks. He was touching her arm, ever so slightly, but enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin against her own.

It was a brilliant plan. How better to spread the Golden Girl's legs than to champion a cause. The bint's knickers probably soaked at the notion.

Draco could picture it; Blaise choking on his words as he described the dire state of the fallen Malfoy line. The way he would hang his head, shielding his eyes from hers until that perfect moment; the one where Granger would lean forward to comfort him, to provide him some form of solace in the fact that she, of all people, understood the plight of woeful, pitiable and reviled creatures.

By then he would have produced a single tear, timed perfectly to fall as his dark eyes met hers, ensuring she would reach out to him, hold him close, press herself against his chest, much as she was at this moment.

The blood in his veins began to boil. He was no charity case. He needed nothing from anyone. Ever. And he would play not part in Blaise's seduction of the filthy Witch.

A feral growl echoed through the room, like a predator readying for the attack.

"YOU." It was a primal and vicious sound that ripped from his throat, causing the would-be seducer to at last take his eyes off of his prey. Eyes wide, Draco did not miss the flash of fear he saw before his fellow Slytherin was able to compose his signature façade of calm.

"Morning sunshine."Blaise's voice drifted across the now silent room. From the corners of his eyes, Draco watched as every Witch and Wizard braced, eyes trained on him, their hands dangerously close to their wands.

They were waiting.

Waiting for him to do something foolish. He would not give them the satisfaction. Not here. Not now. Not after the disgusting display of sentiment he exhibited the prior evening.

"Morning," he replied. He voice was short and clipped. "Might we have a word?"

"Of course, mate." Blaise's smile never wavered as he motioned for Draco to follow him through the door, still ajar.

Nearly a dozen sets of eyes followed his every move as he endeavored to traverse around Weasleys, chairs, broomsticks, and a quite large and unpleasant orange cat.

He moved with rigid precision, tilting and twisting his body this way and that; sucking in his stomach and raising his arms when needed, all to ensure no part of him nor his clothing touched the filth which filled the room.

He paused once he neared the exit, Blaise and Granger still wedged in the hallway. Neither seemed inclined to move. Draco scowled first at the Wizard who returned it with spark of amusement in his brown eyes.

Finally, he turned, sliding away from the brunette and giving way for Draco to follow. But the passageway was confined. Too small for him to walk fully through with Granger unmoved.

She glared up at him, soft brown eyes harshened by the intensity of her focus. He almost respected her resolve; her refusal to step aside as the lesser being.

Almost.

His first instinct was to shoulder past, putting her into the wall. It would require contact, but his clothes were ruined anyway. And had they been anywhere but here, he would have done just that, however the odds of surviving such an aggressive action unscathed in a room full of Gryffindors were not in his favor.

Instead he kept his eyes locked on hers as he angled his body toward her; taking slow deliberate steps sideways into the corridor. He watched her face redden as he drew nearer, her eyes growing wide and bare as his body replaced the space Blaise had previously occupied.

He smirked.

Draco used his height as brushed by her. Nearly a head taller, his form cast a shadow across her face and forcing her to winch her neck in order to maintain eye contact.

He kept his smirk stiffly in place as his abdomen met her curves. He was reminded of similar scenarios, pressed against nameless Witches in corridors and alcoves of Hogwarts. But those instances produced an entirely different type of pleasure for him.

That was lust. This was intimidation.

When his thigh brushed roughly against her hip, she gasped, finally stepping to the side and fully entered the kitchen and backed away. But her wild eyes never left his.

In a daring move, he winked before turning to face Blaise who was waiting on him with an ill expression on his face.

As the duo stepped outside, the room behind them roared back to life.

They stepped around a rather large shabby table, its surface still littered with dishes. Pity the Weasleys couldn't afford an elf. They desperately needed one.

Blaise continued along a path at the rear of the house, one Draco noted he seemed perfectly sure in walking. He must be spending quite a lot of time with the gingers.

No longer confined to the close quarters and narrow passages of the Burrow, Draco walked alongside his friend, matching his long strides step for step until they met a hedge.

Draco looked around with a sneer. He supposed this was the Weasley's garden. It was in a horrid state, not that it wasn't to be expected. The hedge was unkempt and seemed to be fighting against gnarled trees for placement. It was overgrown, more weeds and dirt than anything else, and the nearby pond was covered in a thick layer of algae and slime.

He turned to face his friend, further irritated by his countenance.

"Just what was that about back there? Mate." The words were forced. Draco knew this tone. It was one reserved for Blaise's highest level of frustration; the one just below unreserved rage.

Blaise Zabini had always been a rather detached wizard. Sorted into Slytherin like his mother, there was always a looming sense of doom about him during their time at Hogwarts.

Draco had been able to tolerate his presence well enough. He was wealthy enough to hold a spot in Pureblood circles; no one cared where the money came from. The question of his paternal lineage and suspicious circumstances of his subsequent stepfathers' deaths were never discussed.

The Zabini's had galleons to spare and a hatred of Muggles, Mudbloods, and Blood Traitors. That was all that mattered.

They were not friendly. Slytherins did not have friends, they had allies. In this regard, Blaise differed greatly from his housemates. He held a sort of disdainful indifference for everyone and nearly everything. The only thing Draco ever witnessed him displaying vanity in was his appearance.

It all changed after the war though. Blaise changed after the war.

Having fled Hogwarts with the majority of the Slytherins during the Battle of Hogwarts, Blaise and his mother disappeared. Rumors were that his mother married a Bulgarian. But truth of it was, it was an American.

Blaise spent the better part of two years nestled in the heart of New York City while his mother mourned several husbands.

When he returned this past summer, he returned a different man.

It was merely social civility that brought the two back together.

"You're trying to shag the Mudblood." It was a statement, not a question.

"Don't call her that!" His eyes narrowed as he stepped in close.

"I was right." Draco spoke triumphantly before taking a darker more repulsed tone. "I knew your time in America made you soft, but I didn't know until this moment that it made you a traitor."

"Don't make me regret bringing you here, Draco."

"Go ahead. Regret it. I sure as hell do." He threw his hands in the air, abandoning the Malfoy reserve that had become second nature.

"She was right. This was a mistake." Blaise hung his head and stepped away. He seemed drained.

"For once I would have to agree with her. Now," he turned around, pulling his wand from his pocket and looked around. "I'm apt to correct this error as soon as possible. How far do the wards extend?"

"It won't do you any good, mate."

"What do you mean?"

"Watched her alter the wards myself. You go anywhere near them all you'll come away with is another headache." There was a look of awe and admiration about him as he spoke of Granger. It was doing nothing for Draco's mood.

With a dramatic flair, Blaise reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small vile and tossed it to the blonde. "Speaking of headaches."

Thank Merlin! Without hesitation, Draco popped the stopper and swallowed the its contents. His headache instantly receded and Draco said a silent thank you for small blessings. He had quite an aptitude for potions himself, but no one made a better hangover potion than Blaise Zabini.

He tossed the empty bottle, uncaring of where it landed, as he regarded his friend. His friend who he so deeply wanted to hate, but could not. Perhaps Blaise was not the only one going soft. With a deflated sigh he spoke.

"Why are we here?"

"I've watched you gradually killing yourself for long enough. You won't take care of yourself. I can'ttake care of you. I found a family that can and WILL, against all sound and reasonable advice."

Draco rolled his eyes. "To what end, Blaise. Am I to succumb to the quaint soot-covered charms of gingers as you so obviously have?" He watched as Blaise clenched his jaw. "How exactly did you come to be their pet?"

"I'm going to ignore that. For now. Keeping you sober is going to be a full-time job."

Draco mumbled under his breath. "Keeping me from cursing a Weasley is going to be a full-time job."

"Keeping you SOBER is going to be a full-time job," he repeated. "And you would be hard pressed to find a family with bigger hearts than the Weasley's. After all you and your family have done to them, they have still opened their home to you. You WILL respect that courtesy."

Draco scowled.

"As to how I became acquainted with the family, if you had your wits about you at all this past year, you would KNOW."

Draco racked his brain, rifling through memories of blurry faces and muddled conversations.

"My JOB! At the Ministry?"

Draco cocked his head. "When did you start work at the Ministry?"

"This." Blaise pointed a slender finger at the blonde's face. "THIS is what I'm talking about. You've no idea what has been happening all around you. You've forgotten everything and everyone."

Draco's eye twitched in anger. Perhaps he was not the Wizard he out to be. So, what if he drank? What else was he to do? How else was he to stop the nightmares?

But without memory of much, he had little to dispute Blaise's claim. However, what he did have, was a certain Witch Blaise had all but laid at his feet.

"And Granger?" He watched as the Wizard stiffened.

"Nothing to tell, mate."

"How long have you two been…. acquainted?"

"A few months." Short answers. No vanity or arrogance. Apparently, Blaise wasn't making progress as he would like.

Draco let out a long high whistle. "Losing your touch, mate. Never known it to take this long for you to bed a Witch."

"Hermione is notlike most Witches."

"Hermione,is it?"

"Yes. Hermione. Or Granger. NOT Mudblood. It would do you well to know that SHE is the only reason you are here right now instead of alone choking in a puddle of your own sick."

"Do I have the option to -"

"NO!" Blaise interrupted. "You do not."

Draco surveyed his friend. With the wards keeping him from freedom, he was left with few options. Malfoys were survivors. Or at least they had been. They calculated and measured all options, taking into consideration the course of action which would lend the most advantage to themselves.

He would have to play nice. For now. But the real question was, what could he get out of it?

"What's in it for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused."

"Draco!" Blaise was losing his patience. Good.

"What's in this for me? You want me to play nice with the Gryffindors. What do I get if I do?"

"I can't believe you -"

"You've clearly forgotten who you are speaking to."

A Pause. "What do you want?"

"Not sure. There's not much you have that I desire."

"I don't know why I'm friends with you."

"I'll have to give this some thought."

"You're the most insufferable person I have ever met."

"Also, the wealthiest and devilishly handsome, but that is beside the point."

"I should have left you to die."

"Yes, you should have. But sadly, that opportunity has come and gone. Unless you would like to lower the wards and let me go?"

"No."

"Then alas here we are."

Blaise set a small bush nearby aflame. He was so predictable.

With an effortless flick of his wand, Draco extinguished the small fire. "The Weasleys are rubbing off on you. Perhaps they have a cream or something to correct that."

In the distance, the pair heard a voice calling to them. The presence of another person outside caused them to compose themselves.

"What will it take for you to stay?" Draco knew he had won. Blaise desperately wanted him to stay; for him or for Granger, it did not matter. All that mattered was that he now had the upper hand.

"I don't know yet." Draco tapped his chin with the tip of his wand, making a show of his artificial deliberation. "Let's say you will owe me. At a time and place of my choosing."

He watched as Blaise's face fell, but knew he would agree nevertheless.

"I am loathe to agree to such terms," he spoke seriously, "particularly with you."

"But you will." Draco spun and walked resolutely toward the Burrow.

"I will." Blaise's voice was solemn but firm, his concession bringing a grin to Draco's face as he heard the wizard fall in line behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Why was he friends with this Wizard?_

Blaise glared at the blonde across the table, watching as he pleasantly chewed his food, smugness oozing from every pore. Blaise longed to wipe that cheeky grin permanently from his face.

Draco had run Hermione off…again.

It was uncanny, the young Malfoy's ability to know the precise moment Blaise began to make any headway with the fetching Witch, so much so that he asked Hermione to check for any traces or lingering spells on his person.

He didn't tell her the reason, of course, and before he could provide her with a lie, Draco-sodding-Malfoy burst into the room complaining of the stench, insinuating Blaise had shagged some less-than-appropriate Witch without properly _scorgifying_ the sheets. And it all went downhill from there.

Hermione finally scurried from the room midway through Draco's retelling of the time Blaise snuck the Carrow twins into the boys dormitory, which included a rather disturbing impression of Hestia's screams. ' _Or was it Flora?'_

Despite Draco's accusations, Blaise did not orchestrate his friend's 'kidnapping' and subsequent 'imprisonment' in order to impress Hermione. Was the additional face time with the Witch an added benefit? Of course. But he could do one thing for two reasons.

Truth be told, he was running out of excuses to speak to her at the Ministry.

It had been his decision to seek employment upon his return from America. He hadn't needed the money, but thought it a fit way to reinvent himself. A lot had changed since the war, and he found it necessary for people to see him changed as well.

American society and culture was not the same as back home.

Blaise expected to find the same sort of Pure-Blood community he had grown up among. But those views evidently never took root across the pond.

Without any established social ties or common belief structure in place to act as a stepping stone in Wizarding community of New York, Blaise was left with little to recommend himself.

He was not approachable. He never valued conversation and flattery, and that left him ill-suited for American Witches. So, he did what any respectable Slytherin would do.

He adapted.

He spent weeks studying the manners of Witches and Wizards and subsequently began mimicking that behavior. It worked flawlessly, and before long he had bedded more Witches than he cared to count. They didn't mean anything to him, after all.

But American life, he found, did not suit him, and after a year he found himself longing for home; so he returned.

He purchased a position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Things may have improved after the war but people take much longer to reform, and the galleon's worth had not diminished.

It was sheer coincidence he ever met Hermione Granger.

In his efforts to incorporate himself back into acceptable society, Blaise again drew on his powers of observation. He learned where to eat, where to drink, and what to say in order to draw people to him. It was much easier to form connections, he found, if _he_ was not the one to initiate conversation.

He no longer placed importance on blood status. Those views had served him well in his youth, but that was no longer the world he lived in. So with much effort and practice, he pushed his prejudices and subsequent urges to the back of his mind, building a barricade around them to keep them from surging forward once more.

It worked…most of the time.

Yes, the wall prevented certain words and actions from sullying his new persona, but they were still there, calling to him from the depths of his mind. He had no life-altering experience, no earth-shattering realization molding him into a new man.

It was a façade; A smokescreen; A necessary measure for survival. Or at least that was how it had all started.

Young Witches loved him. Or at least the idea of him. There was something so sinfully delicious about falling into bed with a reformed death eater. Not that he had ever been a death eater, but if you were in Slytherin during the war, you might as well have been. All he had to do was mention 'how wrong he had been' and their knickers were on his bedroom floor within the hour.

But over time, as with most aspects of Blaise's life, those Witches begun to bore him; their robes too tight and their heads too empty.

He wanted someone with more fire, more substance, more…something. So he began setting his sights on more stimulating quarry.

It was in his effort to gain the interest of a striking dark-skinned Witch that his life was truly altered.

Angelina Johnson had grown into a handsome Witch. She worked in his department and seemed a fitting challenge and change from his usual prey. He knew an objective such at this would require more time and effort. He didn't mind the wait.

He endeared himself to her the best he knew how and after several assignments together and a few working lunches he finally gained her respect and acceptance. He knew then that he need only wait for an opening and Angelina did not disappoint.

After a particularly boring meeting regarding the next Triwizard Tournament, Blaise, Angelina, Croans, and Persephone were chatting amicably as they walked the corridors back to their offices. To no one's surprise, their conversation moved to Quidditch. That's when Angelina mentioned needing a chaser for her weekly Quidditch match.

Blaise humbly offered his services. Not only could he ride in on his broom her savior, but it also provided him the opportunity to impress her with his skill at the game.

She was thrilled, pulling him quickly toward her office so that she could fill him in on all the details. He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face.

That was the day Balise discovered not only that she was dating a Weasley, but that he had just agreed to walk straight into the lion's den.

The following Sunday he stood watching as Angelina pled his case. Quarrelling with the red-headed brood; demanding that they give her friend the chance to play.

 _Her friend._

Never had anyone fought so honestly and fervently for him. Never had anyone called him friend and meant it. And now here he stood, at the Burrow of all places. He might as well have shown up at Gryffindor Tower. It was during this contemplation on current predicament that he heard her speak.

"Don't worry. They'll let you play."

She was seated in a worn chair under a tall tree, legs tucked beneath her, a book in her hands. Her face was angled down, eyes focused on the open tome. She didn't seem to be paying him or the contending mob any attention, causing him to doubt if she truly spoke at all.

"George knows better than to oppose with her for too long. The others will approve once he does."

She turned the page, angling her chin as her eyes travelled, absorbing every word. The sun shone through the branches overhead highlighting her hair; A golden halo around a mass of curls.

It look longer than he liked to admit to recognize her. "Granger?"

She looked up, a tight smile on her lips. "Hello, Zabini." She wasn't pleased to see him. It was obvious in her demeanor and her expression. But her eyes, warm pools of honey behind dark lashes met his own dark orbs without a hint of timidness.

"Just filling in," he continued, and looked on as her eyes moved back to her book.

"Unless they like you," she countered.

"What do you mean?" As she turned another page, he found himself desperate for those eyes to be on him once more.

"It's Ginny's spot. She was just offered position on the Holyhead Harpies. It's unlikely she will be round often enough to hold her spot."

There was an explosion behind him, and he turned in time to see a ball of smoke rising high into the air from amidst the group, almost all of whom were grabbing their throats, coughing and wheezing for air.

"That would be George." Her words drew his attention away from the commotion, allowing him to watch as she stifled a laugh, her upper body bouncing as she did.

He swallowed hard. "Why don't you play?"

"I don't fly." Her words were short and firm.

He wanted to speak with her more. He wanted to ask why she didn't fly. Hadn't she learned? Perhaps she simply hadn't found the right teacher. Maybe he could teach her.

An image of him taking her on his broom flashed in his mind; An arm wrapped around her as he caressed her neck with light strokes and tender kisses.

But before he had the chance to speak, he felt himself being pulled away. Angelina, a triumphant smile on her face, drawing him further and further away.

The match had gone well. The Gryffindors' prejudice against him lessening upon witnessing his skill on the makeshift pitch.

Afterword they even invited him for drinks and he soon found himself enthralled by their comradery and high spirits.

They asked him to play again the following week and before long he found himself spending more and more time with the Gryffindors, all the while attempting and failing to gain approval of their princess.

That was around the same time he noticed his friend's decline.

Despite this focus on immersing himself in the new Wizarding society Blaise still held ties with his former life. One of those ties was Draco Malfoy.

A month after returning to England he read of the tragic accident at Malfoy Manor.

Aurors performed a full sweep of the Pure-Blood home, but the ancient manor held more secrets than they had men.

In an effort to stow away a few lingering dark objects, Lucius Malfoy met with a violent end and Narcissa, stricken with grief followed him soon after into the veil, leaving her son unrestrained to shoulder the grief.

Their deaths were mourned by few and celebrated by many. It was only a sense of duty that brought him to call upon the Malfoy heir.

At first he almost enjoyed the blonde Wizard's fall from grace; seeing the Wizard who had once been so proud and powerful fall so low.

 _You've no father to run to now, Draco._

They hadn't been friends. More like rivals. Rivals for status, power, Witches. But that feeling of righteousness did not last long.

Conceivably what Draco continuously said was right. Perhaps time in America had softened him, made him weak. But maybe Blaise simply saw his own fall from position and prestige of the old ways mirrored heavily in the cold and empty expression of his former housemate.

Whatever the reason, a cautious alliance was again formed between the two Wizards.

Regular correspondence turned to frequent dinners. Soon he spent most evenings at the Manor, talking about school and the war, watching as Draco fell further into the abyss. He was drinking more heavily, abandoning his practiced etiquettes, forgetting his social obligations and neglecting his own care.

It wasn't long before the Greengrass girl ended their arrangement, her family publicly declaring the termination of their engagement and denouncing all ties with the Malfoy name.

Draco didn't seem to care.

That weekend he was at the Burrow again, sat stiffly as Ron read the headline out loud. His voice was gleefully and soon the others joined in laughing at and mocking the blonde.

His blood boiled.

He had yet to reveal his friendship with Draco, thinking this newfound bond with the Weasleys still too fragile to survive such an announcement.

But as he compared Draco's misery and deterioration to the joy and love this family was privileged to he exploded, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

It was the first time she met his eyes without a trace of malice.

Weeks went by and before long Draco's abuse and neglect of his home and house elves was reported to the Ministry.

He was drink at the inquiry, and didn't even seem to notice when Ministry Officials came to collect the creatures from his home.

Hermione worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Beings. She was well aware of the situation.

The following day they met in the lifts and she asked after Draco. Blaise could tell it was difficult for her, to bring herself to show concern, no matter how forced, for her childhood bully.

He did not usually speak the business of others, but despite the way she almost choked on the words, her eyes were genuine and soft.

Slowly, the two began to form a sort of friendship, smiling and nodding politely as they crossed paths at the Ministry; engaging in benign small talk at the Burrow. Her acknowledgement and approval washed over him like a warm bath, but just the same once it was gone, he was left cold and shivering missing her warmth and longing for that feeling once more.

Truth be told, he did not know much about her. Every opinion or idea of her during school had been tainted by her dirty blood. But now. Now he saw her as an intelligent and passionate Witch.

Sundays with the Gryffindors did not provide him with enough time or quiet to have a proper conversation with her. He loved watching her eyes come to life, full of fire and passion as she spoke of her work or a new book with her friends. She was carefree in those moments. Why did she never speak to him in such a way?

He found any reason he could to visit her during the week, but she was always so busy, working to champion this cause or that underappreciated being. Her hair a mess and her desk piled high with work.

He asked her to lunch, using the pretense of needing to get out of the office, but she always declined. She was working through lunch, or had plans to meet Harry and Ron. If there wasn't something so oddly intoxicating about her, Blaise would have given up long ago.

Her friends were loud and abrasive, often overtaking the conversation when they found themselves lost in whatever topic she brought up. They were not smart enough for her. They could not keep up with her intellect.

He could.

Her eyes were always warm, but he longed to see the spark of laughter and joy he had seen that first day at the Burrow directed at himself. She never gave him that. More often than not, when they spoke, they spoke only of Draco.

Still he continued his weekly visits to her floor, sometimes missing her, but always looking for her. He tried to move their conversations away from Draco, but beyond that he had little excuse to interrupt her workday.

Determined to move their friendship forward, he resolved to no longer use the abysmal state of his friend as reason to speak with her. The last thing he wanted was her pity. He wanted her to want him as he did her.

He ignored any other Witch who looked his way, as if in doing so Hermione would somehow know his intention toward her. In the end; however, it had been his downfall.

A month later, humiliated and rejected, it was only desperation that brought him to again knock on her door. He hadn't seen her in weeks, hadn't visited the Burrow nor stopped on her floor.

But with every other avenue explored and Draco Malfoy at his worst, Blaise Zabini begged for assistance from Hermione Granger.

He had arrived at Malfoy Manor, as he did every evening arms full of take away he knew Draco would not eat, only this time the blonde was nowhere to be found.

Blaise searched every room and corridor, every balcony, every cupboard to find them all empty. Somewhat unnerved, he made his way outside and began searching the grounds. It was here that he found the blonde unconscious on a stone bench.

He was caked in a thick layer of mud, briars from his mother's rose bushes, long forgotten, stuck out from beneath the hardened coating. His face was scratched, his knuckles bloodied and broken. No shoes. No cloak.

 _What had he done?_

Taking him inside, he cleaned and tended to his wounds. He was competent at best in healing magic, but it would be enough. Draco never woke, only twitching and mumbling nonsense words as Blaise saw to him.

 _This has to stop._

Blaise sent the appropriate owls, reaching out to former classmates he thought might take an interest in Draco's declining health.

He received no replies.

He considered contacting Saint Mungo's, but thought better of it. He was not certain he would survive Draco's fury should he awake there.

Hermione. She cared for the wellbeing of all creatures, no matter how wretched. Perhaps she would care. Could she? She seemed supportive enough of his concern for the blonde. Though he did not miss the way she still sometimes winced at his name.

He wrote the letter four times before finally sending his owl on her way. He received her reply a week later.

She never told Blaise the reason she agreed to help the Wizard who in his youth caused her so much pain and hardship. But she did agree.

She said it wasn't for him, it wasn't for Draco, but then...for whom?

It was yet another thing that drew him her. She was a puzzle. And he was good at puzzles. But yet, he still could not figure her out. She was so passionate and honest. She demanded respect, but declined attention.

She was plain and beautiful and forbidden.

He had to have her. Just once. Maybe forever.

Time spent after work and on weekends visiting the Burrow gave him more opportunities to interact with the Witch. For someone who did not live there, she spent a tremendous amount of time with the Weasleys.

Although he was now there for Draco, his concern and attention was undesired. Draco spent his time flying or locked away in his room. He was miserable and infuriating all the same, but he wasn't drinking.

That, Blaise supposed, was something.

"How do you keep doing that?"

"Whatever do you mean?" The blonde across from him looked up innocently, bringing his glass to his lips and taking a delicate sip. Merlin, even the way he drank was infuriating.

"You know precisely what I am referring to."

"A bloke has to have some sort of entertainment in a place like this. What else would you have me do?"

"You know, you might actually like them if you ever even spoke to them aside from saying something nasty."

Draco's gaze narrowed. "She's really got a hold of you, doesn't she?" Blaise didn't reply. "Any closer to removing those knickers?"

"Shut up!"

"I'll take that as a no." The smirk returned.

"No thanks to you," Blaise chided.

"No thanks to yourself," the blonde retorted. Draco dropped his fork, sneering as an owl crashed into the nearby window and moved to stand. "If you had any real charisma or charm the task wouldn't be near this easy."

"I said, shut up." He pressed his hands firmly against the table as Draco retrieved his broom.

"She will never be yours." The callous Wizard's words cut deep as he returned his attention to Blaise. "She sees right through you. You may smile and flatter her. You may say all the 'right' things to show her that you are a changed man."

"I'm warning you, Draco."

"But at the end of the day, you are simply a snake. You may shed your skin, but underneath you are just like me. And Granger will never - "

"ENOUGH!" Blaise stood swiftly, the fronts of his legs hitting the table and causing the dishes on its surface to rattle. He reached for his wand, relishing in the surge of magic he felt course through him; A curse on the tip of his tongue.

Brown eyes met grey, and he was simultaneously dismayed and maddened by the icy expression which met him.

The grip on his wand loosened. "Do you feel….anything anymore?"

"I feel plenty."

"You weren't always like this."

"Life is pain, Blaise. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something." And with that, Draco turned calmly and made his way outside.

Still full of anger and nowhere to unleash it, Blaise followed shortly after, exerting as much energy as possible in glaring at the blonde as he soared overhead.

"Lover's quarrel?" Her voice floated weightless through the air.

She was in her chair beneath the tall tree again. It had never occurred to him how such a position, sat alone in the open, could at the same time be so well hidden. He never noticed her there, not until she spoke.

"There's more hate than love between us these days," he explained through clenched teeth.

"I don't know about that. I think you'd have to love him very much to put up with him."

"He doesn't have anyone else."

"Doesn't matter." His head jerked in her direction and his heart dropped when he found her eyes again focused on the book in her lap. "Just because he was alone does not mean that you became obligated to befriend him. Simply because you were friends in school - "

"We were not friends." He enunciated each word.

"Ah. Yes. Slytherins don't have friends. My apologies." Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes severely.

"I mean, we weren't friends….then. We are now."

"I know." Of course she knew. She was Hermione Bloody Granger. Brightest Witch of her year. No knowledge was beyond her reach.

"He's insufferable."

"I know that too. But I suppose, when you've been as alone as he has been all your life, you don't know any other way to be."

"Don't tell me Hermione Granger has forgiven Draco Malfoy."

"Of course not!" Her eyes shot up, her mouth dropping open in outrage at the thought; until she caught the glint in his eye. She heaved a sigh and looked to the sky. Blaise followed her gaze to the silhouette of the Wizard in question.

"He's not alone anymore. He has a choice to make now. Just as he did up on that tower, and the stakes are just as great."


End file.
